


This is the way the world is ending

by esoterica



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Stiles finds out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:04:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoterica/pseuds/esoterica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds out that the Sheriff and Deputy Parrish have more than a professional relationship. He does not react well to this. Aka Stiles and Deputy Parrish have A Talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this and this is my first time writing Teen Wolf fic so, sorry.

The rain was falling steadily, as it had been ever since he'd turned off the main road. It sleeted in the glare of the headlights, a ghostly-pale veil over the forest beyond, and hammered against the roof in counterpoint to the steady beat of his heart. Stiles knew he should turn the engine off; he was running low on gas and he wasn't even sure he had enough in the tank to get back to Beacon Hills. He reached for his phone, intending to look up the nearest human habitation, before he remembered that his phone had fallen from his hand right before he'd run from the house and jumped in his car and just driven until his head stopped buzzing and the lights of Beacon Hills faded into the distance behind him.

Stiles crossed his hands on the steering wheel and stared unseeingly at the unrelenting rain. He wasn't lost, not exactly; he knew roughly where he was and he knew he only had to retrace his route and he'd eventually find his way back to civilisation. He just wasn't sure he wanted to go back, or whether it would be easier to just keep driving until the tank ran dry.

Something moved in the trees off to his right. Stiles eyed it disinterestedly: getting ripped apart by a supernatural creature wasn't exactly the daunting prospect it might have been five hours ago. To his disappointment it was only some woodland creature, darting between the trees too fast for Stiles to identify, before disappearing into the darkness. He went back to staring at the rain. The radio was playing some song he hadn’t heard before, a soft, mournful tune that fitted his mood perfectly. Stiles couldn't make out the lyrics but he found himself humming along to the music, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel.

Light flashed over the interior of the Jeep; harsh and intrusive, breaking the spell that had settled on Stiles the moment he’d parked up at the side of the road. He looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled grimly to himself. Despite the glare of its headlights there was no mistaking the markings on the car that had pulled in behind him. Of course his dad had found him.

He leaned back in the seat and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, defiantly staring straight ahead. The radio had switched to a Beach Boys song and Stiles could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest at how ridiculous the whole situation was.

"Something wrong, officer?" he asked as he wound the window down in response to a soft tap against the glass. It didn't come out as sarcastically as he'd hoped.

"You know you have a brake light out, right?"

Stiles' head snapped round in surprise, because that voice was not his dad's voice and the strangeness of the night had just ratcheted up another notch.

"Are you giving me a _ticket_?" he asked disbelievingly.

Deputy Parrish just smiled. The rain was running in rivulets down his regulation jacket and Stiles took a moment to hope that the seams leaked.

"Are we doing this?" Stiles asked. "Are you giving me a ticket, or can I go back to contemplating my life choices without you standing there like a creepy serial killer?" It crossed his mind, just as the words left his mouth, that they were in the middle of nowhere and, while Parrish had always seemed like a nice guy, that didn't necessarily mean much in Beacon Hills. He gripped the steering wheel. "Please tell me you're not a serial killer."

"Not on duty," Parrish said agreeably. He took a step back, putting some distance between himself and Stiles' Jeep.

"Wow, you're on duty. That makes everything about tonight one hundred percent more awkward."

Parrish didn't say anything to that and the silence between them stretched uncomfortably. Stiles tried to keep his eyes on the falling rain but he could see the deputy in his peripheral vision, standing as still as a statue next to his car. It was a battle of wills, of perseverance, of willpower, and a battle Stiles was about to lose spectacularly.

"What do you _want_?" he ground out through gritted teeth.

If Parrish was gloating over his victory he at least had the grace to keep it hidden. "You left your phone and your dad was worried."

"Great, has he put out an APB on me? I can't wait to hear how that went." A thought struck him. "Wait, did he send you after me? Because that-"

"No," Parrish cut him off. "No APB. And no, he didn't send me. In fact, right now I'm supposed to be doing some dedicated filing back at the station while he drives around Beacon Hills pretending he's not searching for you."

Stiles groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Great."

"I'll cut you a deal," Parrish continued calmly. "I'll call him and tell him you're fine. If-"

"If what?"

"If you let me buy you a coffee."

Stiles lifted his head and eyed the deputy warily. "Dude, are you coming on to me? Because that is not cool. You know I'm seventeen, right?"

Parrish actually looked startled for a moment, and then horrified, which Stiles couldn't help finding offensive. "I'm not coming on to you," he said slowly.

"Oh really? You're offering to buy me coffee, and everyone knows what that means! Could you be any more clichéd?"

"Stiles-" Parrish broke off and looked around. "It's just coffee. There's an all-night diner about two miles back. They do awesome donuts with chocolate frosting. And before you make the joke that is begging to be made, I ate there long before I entered law enforcement."

Stiles thought it over for all of a minute. On the one hand, he was clearly in for an awkward conversation with a man he didn't want to have any kind of conversation with right now. On the other hand, free donuts.

"Fine, I'll follow you," he said grudgingly. "But no bad touches."

Parrish didn't bother replying to that; he walked back to his car and got in. And then- nothing. The car didn't move. Stiles banged his head against the door pillar in frustration. It made sense though: if Parrish had managed to get hold of his dad on his cellphone then his dad probably had a lot to say. Stiles just hoped they were having the conversation by cellphone; he didn't want to think about other deputies listening in to a discussion over the radio.

It felt like forever before Parrish's car finally moved, executing a quick turn so that it was facing back the way they'd both come. Then he waited for Stiles before setting off at a steady pace, apparently confident that Stiles would follow. And Stiles did, even if he did consider - just for a moment at one junction - turning in the other direction. He was fifty percent sure that Parrish wouldn't actually come after him in pursuit.

The roads were empty: it was eleven pm so that wasn't anything to be worried about. They passed one SUV going in the opposite direction on the highway but apart from that there was no traffic at all and it reminded Stiles just how far he'd driven.

He hadn’t noticed the diner coming the other direction – or maybe his brain hadn’t registered it at the time. It was set back from the road, a broken neon sign flashing dispiritedly into the night. There was one car parked out front. Stiles wondered just how many customers they got.

He hadn’t brought a jacket. Parrish got out of the police cruiser holding a spare jacket Stiles could only hope wasn’t his dad’s and offered it to Stiles.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said.

Parrish just smiled and headed for the diner, the spare jacket slung over his arm. His calmness was maddening, and Stiles pulled at a face at his retreating back.

“Am I getting that ticket?”

Parrish stopped at the door of the diner. “This time we’ll call it an advisory,” he said, and went inside before Stiles could think of a come-back. Stiles debated storming back to his car, but he was hungry and wet and there had been talk of donuts. He followed Parrish.

The deputy was settled in a booth in the far corner when Stiles stumbled into the diner, already shucking his jacket as he chatted to the middle-aged blonde woman who was – going by the look of the place – the only employee.

“Haven’t seen you in a month or two,” she was saying.

“More like three,” Parrish said easily. His eyes slid past her to Stiles and Stiles reluctantly headed towards the booth. The diner looked like it had last been redecorated in the early 80s and the lurid colours and harsh fluorescent lighting were hurting his eyes. Standing outside in the rain was looking more and more appealing.

“They work you too hard down at the station,” she continued, barely sparing Stiles a glance as he edged around her.

“It’s not so bad.” Parrish shifted up so Stiles could sit down without them having to sit too close to each other, and the woman eyed Stiles and then looked back at Parrish, raising an eyebrow that somehow managed to convey a whole speech filled with innuendo and suggestion in one muscle movement.

Stiles felt himself going red.

“You bring a lot of boys here?” he hissed when she walked away.

“You’re the first,” Parrish said.

Stiles groaned and slumped over the table. “Is my dad coming?” he asked.

Parrish was silent for a moment, then, “No.”

Stiles raised his head. “No? What the hell did you say to him?”

The woman was back with menus but Parrish barely glanced at them before passing one over to Stiles. “Coffee for me, chocolate donut,” he told her. “Stiles will have-”

“Stiles can order for himself,” Stiles interrupted. He knew he was being childish but there was something about the way Parrish had _assumed_ that had infuriated him. He wasn’t that much older than Stiles. “Chocolate donut and a banana shake, please.”

“You don’t want coffee?” Parrish asked.

“I have ADHD,” Stiles snapped. “Didn’t he have time to mention that while you were-”

“You want a large or small shake?” the woman asked and Stiles had completely forgotten she was still standing there. The blush, that had started to fade, returned with a vengeance.

“Um…”

“I’m paying,” Parrish said.

“Large,” Stiles mumbled. “Thanks,” he added, as an afterthought.

“It’s ok,” Parrish said wryly when she’d gone into the kitchen and they were truly alone. Then, “Carol hears a lot of things. She knows to forget most of it.”

“Good,” Stiles muttered, toying with the paper napkin she’d left. Then, to change the subject onto something marginally less embarrassing, he asked, “What did you say to my dad, to stop him coming here?”

“I didn’t exactly tell him where we were,” Parrish admitted, smiling ruefully. “And I thought- Well, I know you probably don’t want to talk to me either but that’s got to be easier than talking to him about this.”

“We don’t talk. Not about something like this. _Especially_ not about something like this.”

That wasn’t exactly the truth: they _did_ talk, usually in that choked-off emotionally-stunted way that left them both feeling awkward and uncomfortable. But the option was there. The door was open, if Stiles chose to use it.

“That’s a shame.” Parrish gave him a small, fleeting smile. “He talks about you all the time.”

Stiles pulled at the edge of the napkin. “I hope that’s an exaggeration.”

Parrish, to his surprise, laughed. “Ok, not _all_ the time. But he talks about you a lot. He’s proud of you. You know that, right?”

The napkin was proving stubbornly resistant to tearing. Stiles gave up on it and turned his attention to a piece of plastic trim splintering off the table top.  Parrish didn’t push him to respond and they sat in silence until Carol came back with their order. She set it down and left them alone and Stiles hoped Parrish knew what he was talking about when it came to her discretion because otherwise there were going to be rumours all over the county by daybreak.

Stiles had intended to eat in silence too but he couldn’t hold back the moan of ecstasy that escaped when he bit into the donut.

“Good?” Parrish asked, grinning.

“It’s- This redefines _good_ ,” Stiles mumbled. “How have I not found this place before?”

“Your dad’s going to kill me for how much sugar you’re getting,” Parrish said, but he didn’t sound particularly remorseful.

“Hey, it’s for a good cause.” Stiles took another bite and whimpered. “Emotional trauma. I am never going to be able to sit on that couch again.”

Parrish flushed a delicate pink, turning his head as he licked away a smear of frosting on his lower lip. Stiles caught himself staring at the other man’s mouth and he quickly looked away.

“Yeah … you weren’t supposed to see that,” Parrish said. “You were supposed to be staying over at Scott’s until tomorrow.”

“So you thought giving my dad – your boss! – a blowjob while I was out of the house seemed like a good idea?” Maybe it was the sugar rush emboldening him but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t think Parrish was exactly going to run the risk of arresting him anyway, no matter how mouthy he got. “Do you have any idea how fucked-up that is?”

Parrish ran a hand over his forehead and sighed. “Stiles, it’s not-”

“Do _not_ tell me it’s not what it looked like. Do not do that, ok? I know what I saw and what the hell were you thinking? Are you that desperate for promotion that you have to seduce my _dad_?”

“Stiles, stop.” For the first time Parrish looked irritated, which Stiles counted as a small victory.

“Why?”

“Because you’re wrong.” Parrish took a sip of his coffee and stared meditatively into the cup. “All of it. You’re wrong.”

“The blowjob part? Because I’m pretty sure what I saw. Is this a regular thing? You come over before your shift starts?”

Parrish huffed a laugh. “Yeah, ok, you weren’t wrong about what you saw,” he said slowly. “But the rest of it … I’m not doing this for promotion or favouritism or anything like that, and if you think your dad would even…” He trailed off

Stiles had to admit the man had a point. His dad probably gave Parrish all the worst shifts just to prove to himself that he wasn’t playing favourites. Reluctantly he nodded. “So, what? You guys are _dating_?”

Parrish shrugged. That was an answer in itself.

“Fuck,” Stiles said numbly.

Parrish let him sit for a moment before he said, “Are you upset that your dad is dating or that he’s dating a guy?”

Stiles stared at him. “I- Ok, that’s not fair.”

“I’m just curious.”

“I don’t exactly spend a lot of time thinking about my dad dating anyone,” Stiles said defensively. “Make that zero time. He met my mom when he was my age, ok? They dated, they got married, I came along, my mom died. That’s it. He hasn’t dated, he hasn’t been meeting people.”

Except the usual DUI suspects and the families of Beacon Hills’ latest murder victim and the deputies who were more likely than not to _be_ said murder victim. Stiles rubbed his eyes frustratedly.

“It’s a long time to be alone,” Parrish said neutrally, and even though it wasn’t an accusation it felt like one.

Objectively, Stiles had always known that his dad missed his mom, but he had a glimpse, just then, of what Claudia Stilinski’s passing had really meant for his dad, the abyss of loneliness her death had condemned him to. For Stiles, the effect on his dad of his mother’s death had always been filtered through his own experience, his own loss and grief. He couldn’t imagine how his dad must have felt, watching his wife slip away day by day, coming home from the hospital to a cold and empty bed, and a life joined to another suddenly cut in two. He’d never even _tried_ to imagine it, because it simply hadn’t occurred to him to think about his dad as anything other than his dad. How long had it even been since anyone but Stiles had hugged his dad in more than casual friendship?

Stiles swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “You and him. How long?”

Parrish took another sip of his coffee. “A couple of months.”

“You mean when-”

“Yeah.” Parrish scrubbed at the side of his head. “That was one eventful day,” he admitted wryly.

“Dad said you saved his life.”

“He saved mine too.”

Stiles looked at him sharply. “Is that it? Is that why?”

“Hero worship?” Parrish’s smile softened. “No. No need to make this anything more than it is, Stiles. It’s less complicated than you think-”

“I don’t know what I think.” Stiles sank back in his chair. He was exhausted all of sudden, all the adrenaline that had kept him going for the last few hours bleeding out of his system and leaving him empty. “I just found out my dad is getting it on with a guy only a couple of years older than me-”

“I’m actually twenty-four-”

“A guy _seven years older than me_. After he at no point indicated that he was interested in guys in any way. Information! Information would have helped.”

“Statistically speaking, it’s not unusual to be attracted to both men and women,” Parrish said calmly. “You know that.”

It wasn’t a question; more of a statement. Stiles’ stomach gave an odd lurching leap but he managed a strangled, “Are you?”

“No.” If Parrish was aware of Stiles’ inner turmoil, he gave no sign.

“So, just my dad then?”

“Just guys. But, right now, yeah, just your dad.”

“Good.” Stiles stuffed the last piece of donut in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully for a moment. “If you hurt him…”

Parrish raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean I’m allowed to date him?”

“Dude, are you five? You don’t need my approval.”

“Actually I do.” Parrish gave him a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Stiles was familiar with that look; he got it a lot. “You know who he’d choose, if it came down to it. He’d end it with me tomorrow if you gave the word.”

The truth of it hit Stiles hard, something in the tense way Parrish was holding himself and the sudden vulnerability in his eyes as he watched Stiles. Stiles had power over him, real power, and if Stiles had needed any proof that Parrish had genuine feelings for his dad and not just calculating ambition it was all right there. He only had to say the word and his dad would cut Parrish off and everything would go back to how it had been and maybe in ten years or so Stiles would be able to forget everything about tonight.

But in ten years his dad would still be alone, still sleeping in that cold, empty bed and sitting down to dinner by himself. Stiles would be gone, living his own life. And Stiles couldn’t deny that his dad had been _happy_ , these last couple of months, content in a way Stiles could barely remember seeing before. Parrish was _good_ for him.

As midnight epiphanies went, this was a big one.

Stiles wiped his hands clean and cleared his throat. “Your shift ends at seven am, right?” he asked.

Parrish looked surprised by the question. “Yeah.”

Stiles nodded. “Ok. Ok, you should come over. For breakfast.”

Parrish’s eyes narrowed. “Breakfast.”

“Yes, breakfast. Eggs and bacon, all that shit. You, me, my dad. Like normal people.”

“You want me to come to breakfast.” Parrish still didn’t sound like he believed it.

“Yes, I want you to come to breakfast,” Stiles said exasperatedly. “Unless- unless you don’t- If this isn’t serious-”

“That’s not what I meant,” Parrish cut in. “It- it is serious. I just wasn’t sure if you really wanted to make it … official.”

“Dude, it’s breakfast, not a wedding ceremony.” Stiles clamped down on the sudden mental image _that_ conjured up. “Just be there, ok?”

Parrish nodded, and they shared a tentative smile. Parrish paid the bill and they headed back out to the cars. The rain had stopped and a fresh breeze was blowing; Stiles was glad of the jacket Parrish had given him.

They stopped at a gas station Parrish knew of, and Stiles pretended he hadn’t noticed the curious looks the owner kept giving him when he saw the patrol car very obviously waiting. Stiles guessed that Parrish was probably phoning his dad again, telling him that they were on their way back. Stiles didn’t want to think too much about that conversation. He paid for the gas and went back outside.

“What do I call you?” he asked when Parrish put the window down in response to Stiles’ soft tap.

Parrish, still holding his cellphone, looked up at Stiles. “What?”

“’Deputy Parrish, could you please pass the salt’ sounds a little formal,” Stiles clarified.

“Oh.” Parrish tucked the phone away in his jacket and smiled. “Right. Jordan is fine.”

“Jordan,” Stiles repeated, testing it out. It sounded strange but he told himself he’d get used to it.

They drove back to Beacon Hills in convoy and Stiles had time to wonder what Parrish made of it all, whether he’d use the remainder of his shift to plan a move away from Beacon Hills to somewhere a little less stressful instead. A warzone, maybe. But the deputy looked relaxed enough when he rolled down his window to say goodbye outside Stiles’ house.

“You could come in,” Stiles said. There was a light on downstairs, and Stiles guessed his dad was waiting up.

Parrish shook his head. “I have filing to catch up on,” he said. The streetlights softened his features, made it harder for Stiles to read his expression.

“But you’re coming for breakfast, right?”

“Seven thirty,” Parrish said, and it sounded like a promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the big talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I really, really like writing in this laughably non-canon compliant universe. Just a short little snippet of the morning after - thank you to everyone who liked the first part!

His dad was sitting at the table, trying to look like he wasn’t waiting for Stiles to come downstairs and failing miserably. There was a moment of strained eye contact between them before Stiles looked away and went to the fridge to pour himself some juice.

His dad cleared his throat. Stiles kept his back turned, wondering how this was going to go. Whether his dad was going to address the events of the previous night or whether this was going to be all about Stiles going missing for hours and a resulting grounding until he turned thirty, at the very least.

In the end, his dad didn’t say anything at all, just eased out of his chair and went to make himself a coffee.

“Not a word,” he grunted as he walked around Stiles to fetch the milk. “I need the caffeine.”

Stiles hadn’t planned to say anything: his dad looked like he’d gotten even less sleep than Stiles himself, and caffeine was probably the only way he was going to get through the work day.

“Maybe you should call in sick,” he suggested.

His dad gave him a look. “I’m the sheriff.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna be striking fear into no one looking like that.” Stiles waved a vaguely apologetic hand in the hope that would take some of the sting out of his words. “I’m just saying.”

His dad scrubbed self-consciously at his stubbled cheek. “I need to shave, that’s all.”

“And sleep for about twenty hours,” Stiles countered.

“Stiles-“

“Call in sick. I will call in sick for you. Half a day, even.”

“ _No_ , Stiles.”

Stiles threw his hands up, narrowly avoiding throwing the remainder of his juice over his dad. “Fine. Don’t listen to me. Do you know how important sleep is? Sleep deprivation is a factor in one in six fatal road accidents, ok.”

His dad plucked the glass out of Stiles’ hand and gave him a pointed look. “Thanks for the infomercial. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school? Breakfast is important too.”

“Breakfast-” Stiles broke off. There was something nagging at him, a memory he couldn’t quite pin down. Something he’d meant to do, maybe-

Behind him, a key turned in a lock. Stiles and his dad both looked round, and then they looked at each other.

“He has a _key_?” Stiles burst out.

The door opened before his dad got a chance to reply, and Deputy Parrish stepped into the house, bringing with him all the memories of one hell of an awkward night that Stiles had somehow managed to push into the distant and rarely-accessed recesses of his mind, like the memory of that one time he’d walked into class with his fly undone.

Stiles wasn’t sure who, out of him and his dad, was more red-faced and uncomfortable with the situation.

“Hi,” Parrish said, a little uncertainly. He said it to Stiles, mostly, but his gaze slid sideways to Stiles’ dad and there was a moment of something like silent conversation between them before he added a, “Sorry I’m late.”

He wasn’t, but Stiles let it slide. Parrish looked tired too, but he’d just come off a twelve-hour shift so it was understandable. Stiles wondered how that shift had gone, after Parrish had left him at the house; whether Parrish had spent the long hours planning to get as far away from Beacon Hills as he could. Stiles wouldn’t blame him if he did. The chances of him making his next birthday weren't high as long as he stayed in Beacon Hills, without any of the complications that came with even the slightest association with the Stilinski family.

“No problem,” Stiles said. His dad looked bewildered by Parrish’s sudden appearance and Stiles remembered – belatedly – that he hadn’t actually told his dad what he’d done. Obviously Parrish hadn’t mentioned it either. Stiles decided to put the man out of his misery. "I invited him," he explained, indicating Parrish.

"He did," Parrish confirmed, shrugging off his jacket.

There was a long moment of awkward, stilted silence.

“Well,” Stiles’ dad said with forced cheerfulness. “Here we are. Coffee?”

Parrish played along. “Sure,” he said. He glanced at Stiles. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He wasn’t exactly sure whether he was ok or not and he still had no idea what he’d been thinking inviting Parrish over for breakfast. Although perhaps it hadn’t mattered whether he'd been invited over or not, since he’d walked into the house like this wasn’t the first time he’d let himself in. Stiles looked searchingly at his dad. “How long has he had a key?”

His dad passed a hand over his eyes. “Stiles-” he began tiredly, but Parrish cut in:

“I brought breakfast.”

Stiles had to admit it was a good way of skating over an awkward topic. His dad’s eyes lit up immediately. “Pancakes?”

“Oh _hell_ no,” Stiles said at once, shaking his head.

Parrish shook his head too. “Not pancakes. Granola and yogurt.”

Stiles’ dad pulled a face. “I could _order_ you to go and get pancakes.”

Parrish shrugged, lifting up a bag Stiles hadn’t noticed when he’d come in and offering it to Stiles. “I’m off duty now, Sheriff.”

And Stiles saw it then, in the way his dad tried to look stern but couldn’t quite stop the corners of his mouth turning up, in the way Parrish’s eyes glinted wickedly as he glanced at the older man. A connection between them, a sparking, fizzing burst of connection that lit them both up from the inside and rendered the rest of the world, just for a tiny, fleeting moment, as insubstantial as the morning mist.

Stiles cleared his throat, reminding them of his existence. His dad had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Man can’t get a minute’s peace,” he mumbled.

“Just looking out for you,” Parrish said easily. “Right, Stiles?”

"Right." Stiles pasted on a smile. "You want that coffee?"

"Sure."

He knew his dad wasn't fooled for a moment but the man had the decency to stay quiet and not question Stiles' sudden bout of helpfulness. Later, maybe, they'd talk about it. Or not.

“Should you be drinking that?” Parrish asked as Stiles poured himself a coffee. “Isn’t it bad for you? ADHD, right?”

Stiles faltered. Behind him, his dad snorted. Parrish looked between them, confused.

“In future,” his dad said heavily, “if Stiles tells you the sky is blue, check it’s still daylight out.”

“I’m actually ok with it.” Stiles ignored his dad as best he could and handed over the deputy’s coffee. “Kinda calms me down. Helps me focus.”

They ate breakfast at the table, Parrish and his dad sitting a careful distance apart. No one brought up the subject of the previous night, to Stiles’ relief – and probably theirs too.

“Any sign of Edwards?” Stiles’ dad asked, spooning granola into his mouth with a martyred air.

Parrish shook his head. “No reports. But I did get an email from his lawyer at six am.”

“Six am? Seriously?”

“He says it’s a misdemeanour and his client is the real victim.”

Stiles’ dad snorted. “A scumbag kid who threatens little old ladies. Excuse me if I don’t see him as the victim here.”

“Hey,” Stiles interrupted. “No office talk. Isn’t that what you always say to me?”

Instead of replying, his dad just turned to Parrish. “See what I have to put up with?”

“Seems to take after his old man, to me,” Parrish said, deadpan.

His dad winced. “Less of the _old man_ , thank you.” He wasn’t looking away, though, and that connection Stiles had noticed before was back, all crackling intensity and a jolt of sexual tension Stiles could feel all the way over on the other side of the table.

“And that’s my cue to go to school,” Stiles said, getting to his feet. Just because he was _kindamaybepossibly_ ok with the concept of his dad and Parrish, in general, non-specific terms, didn’t mean he was quite ready to witness the reality of his dad in an actual relationship.

But they’d had breakfast, and no one had died. Or turned out to be evil. All in all, it wasn’t a bad start.

“Don’t forget to check that front tyre,” his dad said absently. “It looks a little flat.”

“Dad, it’s fine. I’m driving to school.” Stiles knocked back the last of his coffee. “Sleep, ok? Call in sick. Please.”

His dad didn’t answer, and Stiles didn’t look back. He had a feeling Parrish probably wasn’t going home right away.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff gets hurt, and Stiles learns a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another installment of my strange little AU. Not at all canon-compliant. Thanks for reading :)

Condoms. There were condoms in the medicine cabinet.

Stiles closed the cabinet, counted to ten and took a couple of deep breaths before he opened the cabinet again. The condoms were still there.

Not a hallucination, then. He couldn’t blame any kind of possession for this.

Logically Stiles knew it shouldn’t be a surprise. It had been three weeks since he’d found out about his dad and Deputy Parrish and, while they’d been discreet and careful when they knew he was around, Stiles wasn’t blind or deaf either. Parrish was back on the day shift and, on the evenings he came over to the Stilinski house for dinner, he and Stiles’ dad would make a point of sitting downstairs until there was plausible deniability over whether Stiles was asleep or not. Unfortunately for them - or, more accurately, unfortunately for _Stiles_ \- his dad’s long-held habit of deciding to speak to Stiles whenever Stiles was having a little one on one time with his right hand meant that Stiles’ senses were acutely attuned to the sound of his dad’s footsteps on the stairs, and there was no mistaking that there were now _two_ people coming upstairs instead of one.

Stiles had invested in some new earbuds. That helped a little.

So, logically, Stiles had no reason to be surprised about the fact that condoms had made an appearance in the Stilinski house for the first time since his dad had – optimistically, as it turned out – left some on Stiles’ desk when he started high school. The thought of his dad buying them on his behalf had been mortifying back then, but this wasn’t a case of Stiles’ hypothetical sex life now. This was his dad’s _actual_ sex life. With Parrish. Who he didn’t have anything against but, still, it was his _dad_. Having sex.

Stiles banged his forehead against the cabinet a few times. It didn’t help much.

“Are you ok?” Lydia asked later, at school. “You look pale.”

“And interesting?”

“No, just pale.” Lydia eyed him curiously. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles debated, just for a moment, telling her about the condoms. Or that he’d walked out of his bedroom that morning to come face to face with Parrish coming out of his dad’s bedroom, wearing only what were unmistakably a pair of his dad’s sweatpants. There had been a really awkward moment of Stiles struggling with the competing impulses to _not_ think about what Parrish had been doing in his dad’s bedroom while simultaneously contemplating the fact that Parrish was definitely easy on the eye.

“I’m fine,” he said instead.

Lydia gave him a disbelieving look, before shaking her head. Stiles knew it wasn’t a reprieve; he’d piqued her curiosity and once upon a time he would have been happy about that but now … not so much.

He stared at the floor for a while.

The substitute had been talking for at least twenty minutes without, as far as Stiles could tell, taking a breath. Stiles had tried to pay attention, he really had, but there was nothing in the man's drawling monotone to interest him, either in delivery or content. At least the previous substitute had had the decency to turn up in a suit that looked and smelled like it had been last worn in the 70s. It had given Stiles’ imagination plenty to go at.

Stiles counted the ceiling tiles for a while, trying to work out how they'd been fixed into the metal strips that separated them and held them into the roof, before noticing, in his peripheral vision, that the caretaker was standing in the parking lot outside going toe to toe with a delivery guy holding a package clamped under his arm. The caretaker was waving his arms around in a manner he’d clearly borrowed from Finstock; the delivery guy was outnumbered, given that he only had the one arm free, but he was giving as good as he got. Stiles leaned back in his seat to get a better view and grinned to himself. The delivery guy had progressed to finger-pointing: things were looking up.

And that was how Stiles happened to be looking out of the window when the police cruiser pulled in.

Stiles sat up, all interest in the delivery guy instantly lost. His first thought was that it was his dad, and that meant either Stiles was in trouble or something was going on. Since Stiles couldn’t remember actually breaking any laws lately it was probably the latter. Something interesting and something Stiles needed to know about. He started to turn, to reach over to wake Scott up, but then the door of the cruiser opened and Stiles' hand froze in mid-air.

He was too far away to make out his expression but Stiles didn't need to see Parrish's face to know that something was very wrong; it was written clearly in the way the man hooked his jacket out of the car and pulled it on and the way he started off towards the school office, walking briskly and with purpose and a definite air of impending doom.

Stiles raised his hand. “I need to go to the nurse’s office,” he announced,

The substitute cut off mid-sentence and blinked at him. The three people who weren’t asleep or on their phones stared curiously at him. At one time Stiles would probably have cared about that but the way things had been going lately, he really didn’t. And the thick, roiling apprehension churning his stomach was enough to overrule anything, because this was everything he’d been anticipating and dreading since he was twelve years old.

“I don’t- Mr- ah-“

“I need my medication,” Stiles said, getting to his feet. “Really, really need it.” He didn’t wait for a response; he was half-way to the door before he’d even finished the sentence and nothing on earth would have stopped him leaving that room.

Parrish was standing outside the principal’s office; waiting for him. His carefully blank expression and tense stance confirmed all of Stiles’ worst fears.

“What-“

“In there.” Parrish pointed towards an empty office across the hall.

“Is he-“

“He’s alive.” Parrish pushed him, non-too gently, into the office and shut the door behind them. Stiles stumbled and nearly fell; he was trembling so badly he could barely stand.

_Alive. But not healthy._

“He’s in the hospital,” Parrish told him. “Routine DUI stop, the guy tried to run him down.” His hand rested tentatively on Stiles’ arm. “It’s a broken leg and a cracked rib. He’s going to be ok.”

“Fuck,” Stiles said numbly. “Just- fuck.”

“He’s going to be ok, Stiles. Breathe. He’s ok.”

Stiles focused on the wall in front of him, the imperfections in the plaster, and tried to remember how to draw oxygen into his lungs. He wasn’t going to have a panic attack, not now. Not until he’d seen his dad for himself and knew for sure that he was alive. “I need to see him,” he ground out.

“That’s why I’m here,” Parrish said, maddeningly calm. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“Why are you so calm about this? Why are you not out there going after the _fucking asshole_ who-“

“Relax.” Parrish’s fingers dug into his arm, just a little. “He’s in custody.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, deflating. “Quick work.” He glanced at Parrish just in time to catch a brief grin.

“Not me. Your dad. Got the cuffs on him and radioed for back-up even with his leg broken.”

“Oh. Awesome.”

“He’s a tough cookie.”

An unpleasant thought occurred to Stiles. “This guy … he’s just a _guy_ , right?” He didn’t elaborate; he knew he didn’t need to with Parrish.

“Just a small town drunk, Stiles,” Parrish said gently. “Nothing more. Sobbing like a baby when I got there.”

“Good,” Stiles said with feeling.

“Yeah. Now let’s get to the hospital, ok?”

Parrish had apparently cleared the way already, because no one questioned Stiles walking out of school in the middle of the day in the company of a police officer. He could still feel the weight of the stares of half the student body as they walked across the parking lot. His phone buzzed and Stiles knew it was probably Scott, asking what was going on. He didn’t bother checking.

The car journey was interminable, silent and far too slow for Stiles’ liking - not that anything less than the speed of light would have felt quick enough in the circumstances. Parrish didn’t bother pulling into the hospital parking lot; he parked the cruiser as close as he could to the building and switched the engine off.

“Dude, you’re going to get towed,” Stiles said, unfastening his seat belt.

“No one’s going to tow the car.”

“Seriously, Scott parked his mom’s car just over there once for twenty minutes and they towed it.”

Parrish gave him a long-suffering look. “Get out of the car, Stiles.”

Stiles got out of the car.

He followed Parrish into the hospital and all at once it hit him: the smell of antiseptic and disease and death that made his stomach roll, the too-bright ceiling lights that gave everyone that fresh cadaver look and made everything just a little too sharp, a little too in focus. Stiles hunched his shoulders and kept walking. There were too many memories in this place, too many ghosts.

“You ok?” Parrish asked quietly.

“Not really,” Stiles admitted. It felt like the walls were closing in on him, folding around him like a shroud.

“It’s not far. He’s just along here.”

There was a deputy outside the door to his dad’s room: a new one. Stiles looked away.

“Hey,” Parrish addressed her. “How’s he doing?”

“Good,” she said. “He’s awake, if you want to go in. The doc says it’s a straightforward fracture of the tibia, whatever _that_ is. Want some coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks. You want anything, Stiles?”

Stiles shook his head. “Does she _know_?” he hissed as she walked away towards the vending machine.

Parrish gave him an unfathomable look. “She doesn’t know anything,” he said, pushing on the door. “Go on in.”

And Stiles did and didn’t want to, that was the thing. He needed to see his dad, soothe the ache rooted somewhere deep in his chest, but at the same time he was terrified of what he’d see lying in the hospital bed, so in the end he hovered just inside the door with Parrish blocking his retreat and looked everywhere except the bed until his dad coughed pointedly and said:

“Hey.”

Stiles took a step towards the bed and finally, finally looked at him.

It wasn’t bad. There was a cast on his dad’s leg and he was wearing a hospital gown - _because they had to cut his uniform off of him_ , Stiles’ treacherous mind whispered - and he was sitting propped up by pillows looking paler than Stiles would have liked but it wasn’t _bad_.

He was alive, and Stiles’ legs gave way beneath him and he would have fallen to the floor except Parrish was there with a hand under his elbow to guide him into the chair next to the bed.

“I’ll be outside,” he heard Parrish say. Stiles just stared at his dad’s hand, splayed on the starched hospital sheets. At his wedding ring and all its little scratches and dings; at the raw, livid scrape on the back of his hand.

“Stiles,” his dad said gently. “You in there?”

Stiles winced a little. “Yeah,” he said unsteadily. He pasted a smile onto his face. “So tell me how you took this guy down.”

For now, he could pretend everything was ok.

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Come _on_. Way I hear it, you were a hero and saved the day.”

His dad snorted. “He could barely stand up. No heroics needed.”

“Tell me anyway,” Stiles said, because he needed to hear his dad talk and watch him breathe just to remind himself that this wasn’t the stuff of nightmares. That it was nothing more than a fractured tibia and a cracked rib that would _heal_ , and that it was all thanks to some very _human_ idiot who’d downed a bottle of whisky at ten in the morning before getting behind the wheel of a car and not some supernatural horror.

“Go home,” his dad said eventually, when the story had been told twice over and Stiles had thrown in enough questions to at least partly convince his dad he was ok. “You have school tomorrow.”

“I’m staying here,” Stiles said automatically.

“No, Stiles, you’re not,” his dad said tiredly. “They’re keeping me in for observation and there’s nothing you can do here. Go home, eat something, go to school tomorrow.”

“The Jeep’s at school,” Stiles said stubbornly.

“Jordan will drive you. Go. Home.”

Stiles did a double-take: for all that it was three weeks since he’d found out about their relationship this was the first time he’d ever heard his dad refer to Parrish so casually, on first name terms. His dad looked tired. And in pain.

“Do you need painkillers?”

“The nurse’ll be around in a little while…”

“I’ll get someone.”

He had eight increasingly-frantic texts from Scott on his phone by the time his dad was dosed up on painkillers and falling asleep and they were standing outside. Stiles fired off a quick reply to Scott while Parrish unlocked the cruiser.

“See,” Parrish said, giving him a lopsided grin. “Didn’t get towed.”

“Think this counts as an abuse of office, dude.”

“Official business. I’m on duty,” Parrish deadpanned. “Want pizza?”

As if on cue, Stiles’ stomach rumbled. Now the knot of anxiety had eased he realised just how hungry he was. “Yeah, ok.”

His phone buzzed. Scott again. _Shit._ _U want me there?_

_No_ , Stiles sent back. _It’s ok_. His fingers hovered over the screen as he stared at the words he’d typed. They felt inadequate, but he wasn’t sure Scott could help him with this.

“I’ll drive you home,” Parrish said. “I have to go back to the station though; I’m still on duty. Will you be ok?”

“Yeah.” Stiles stared at the girl walking across the road in front of the cruiser. She looked - just for a moment, until she turned her head to stare curiously at them - a little too like Allison for comfort. “I’ll be ok. You can help me eat the pizza later.”

He almost missed it, the way Parrish’s hand jerked a little on the wheel. “You want me to come over?” he said carefully.

“Dude, you practically live with us.” The girl didn’t walk like Allison. It shattered the illusion. “You were coming over tonight anyway.”

And then Stiles’ brain caught up with what his eyes had seen and in the space of a few seconds connected all the dots he hadn’t even noticed when all his mental focus had been on his dad.

Parrish would have heard his dad’s call for back-up over the radio and must have been one of the first - if not _the_ first - to respond, not knowing what he would find when he arrived.

Parrish had seen his dad injured and in pain and he’d set aside everything he must have been feeling to do his job and take care of Stiles too.

And Parrish had assumed that Stiles wouldn’t even want him in the house. Had waited outside the hospital room while Stiles was in there with his dad. Had assumed that Stiles would cut him out at the first opportunity.

“You’re going to see my dad at the end of your shift, yeah?” Stiles didn’t wait for Parrish to nod. “Ok, I’ll eat something healthy now so you can tell him I’m eating right and you get pizza on the way home, deal?”

Parrish stared at him for a moment and then smiled. “Deal.”

Stiles checked the local news on his phone during the drive home. Parrish glanced over at a stoplight and asked:

“What are they saying?”

Stiles angled the screen so the deputy could see it. “Hero Sheriff.”

“Good.” Parrish squinted at the screen. “He’s not going to be happy about them using that photo, though.”

Stiles had to agree: the photo of his dad was three or four years old and, going by his expression, it must have been taken on a day when he was particularly exasperated with Stiles. “Hide it from him.”

“He can use a computer, Stiles.”

“I could-” Stiles mentally cycled through assorted ways of phrasing his over-familiarity with the sheriff’s office’s IT system and settled on: “Tell him not to look?”

Parrish gave him a look. “Good luck with that.”

Left alone in the house, Stiles took a long shower to wash away the stench of _hospital_ and _death_ , before heading downstairs to fix himself some lunch. The house felt empty and too quiet - even though Stiles was used to being alone when his dad had to work it felt different when he knew his dad wouldn’t be home tonight. He debated asking Scott to come over after school just for the company but in the end he watched TV, mindlessly flicking through channels and letting noise and colour wash over him until he heard the sound of a car pulling onto the drive and he realised that somehow hours had passed without him being aware of it.

It hurt a little to look out and see the cruiser parked outside.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Parrish said as he walked past Stiles into the house. “They had a special offer.”

Stiles eyed the box the deputy was carrying critically as he closed the door behind him. “How many people did you invite over?”

Parrish laughed. He looked tired. “Like I said, I hope you’re hungry.” He went through to the kitchen and deposited the pizza box on the counter. “Your dad’s fine. Getting grouchy about being stuck in the hospital. He’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Awesome,” Stiles said with feeling.

“Yeah. They’re talking five to six weeks recovery.”

Stiles winced. “He’s not going to rest up for six weeks.”

“Nope,” Parrish agreed.

Parrish went back out to the cruiser while Stiles got plates for the pizza and poured them both some juice. When he returned he was carrying an extra jacket - his dad’s jacket, Stiles realised at once.

“It was in his car,” Parrish said by way of explanation. He hung it on its hook.

They ate pizza in front of the TV and it was less awkward than Stiles might have expected. After a while Parrish mumbled something about a shower and went upstairs and Stiles remembered that the deputy was on duty again at seven in the morning and couldn’t afford to lose too much sleep babysitting Stiles. But he probably would, out of some misplaced sense of duty. Stiles pulled a face to himself as he took the plates into the kitchen.

He couldn’t help reaching out to brush his hand against the sleeve of his dad’s jacket as he headed upstairs.

Sleep wasn’t on the agenda but Stiles went through the motions of getting changed for bed and pretending to be asleep when Parrish knocked on the door and asked if he was ok. He waited until the deputy went downstairs before he slid out of bed and spent the next three hours obsessively googling possible complications of fractures of the tibia and it was only when he managed to drag himself away from it that he realised he hadn’t heard Parrish come back upstairs. Which could mean a lot of things but Stiles’ mind immediately went to the worst possible conclusion and, heart hammering, he picked up his phone. He tiptoed to the door, brought up Scott’s number, and very carefully opened the door with his thumb hovering over Scott’s name ready to call for help.

Nothing. There was nothing. The door of his dad’s room was ajar and Stiles could see that the bed wasn’t occupied. The TV was still on downstairs but the sound had been turned down. Stiles took a breath and moved stealthily towards the stairs, clicking off the phone so the light wouldn’t give him away. A werewolf could track him with or without light, but Stiles wasn’t intending to make it easy for a more human intruder.

As he inched down the stairs, careful to avoid the treads that creaked, Stiles heard a muffled sound from the direction of the kitchen he couldn’t quite identify. He tightened his grip on the phone and took the final step.

Parrish was standing there, leaning against the counter, head down, and there was just enough light coming through from the TV for Stiles to see what Parrish was holding in his arms, hugging to his chest.

His dad’s jacket.

_Shit_. Stiles took a step back, and then another, because he wasn’t meant to see this, wasn’t meant to see Parrish with his defences stripped away and his soul laid bare, and it felt like an intrusion of the worst kind.

Unsettled, Stiles misjudged the next step and nearly slipped and had to grab at the wall to steady himself.

“Stiles?” Parrish’s voice cracked on his name.

“I-” Stiles began, then faltered because he had no idea what to say. He judged there was no point trying to deny he’d seen what he’d seen. “You love him,” he blurted out.

There wasn’t enough light to clearly make out Parrish’s expression but maybe it was easier that way: just two shapes in the darkness, two voices in the stillness of the night, the space between them lending itself to the speaking of truths that might never be spoken aloud in daylight.

“Yes,” Parrish said. “Did you think I didn’t?”

Stiles sorted through the morass of thoughts churning through his mind. “I thought you cared about him,” he said. _I didn’t realise what it meant_ , he added mentally. _I don’t think you did either. You weren’t ready for this; you weren’t ready to get there too late to stop him getting hurt._

Silence. A leaden silence, weighed down with the ghosts of the past and the unknowns of the future. And a tenuous bond between the two of them, a shared understanding that was still too new and too fragile to be put into words.

“You should get some sleep,” Stiles offered eventually. “You have to be awake in … six hours?”

Parrish huffed a laugh. “Thanks for reminding me. I need to drop you at school too.” He sounded almost normal now; under control.

“I can take the bus.”

“Nice try. Your dad will want to know you got to school. In fact, he told me specifically to make sure you got to school.”

“Hey!” Stiles said indignantly. Parrish just laughed.

“Go to bed, Stiles. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He was still holding the jacket, clutching it like it was his lifeline in a stormy sea.

Stiles wasn’t going to begrudge him that.


End file.
